Page 45 of The Devil’s Detail (The Greystone Family: Greystone Brothers #2)

Carter

It is so typical. Just as one part of your life goes so well it’s ridiculous, that another side winds up becoming a raging dumpster fire.

I’m sure I’ve heard people talk about it.

When you're picking up accolades and selling out cinemas or concerts and tours, you're off the rails in your personal life.

My professional life has exploded in the best way, and, as I’ve said before, that’s really saying something since I was at the top of my game anyway.

But now? Now it’s a constant conveyor belt of interviews—phone, internet, and face-to-face in person.

The questions are mostly the same. My answers are the same.

But I have to have some fun with it, otherwise I’d go mad. Groundhog day, every damn day.

Luckily I’m saved by my alter ego. Because Carter Fucking Maywood, A-list Hollywood Actor? He’s still in full form. Flirting with everything with a pulse. Sending the interviewers out the door with a smile.

The sticking point for me every time is doing my English accent.

I’m not sure how I’m going to go through a whole film with it.

It reminds me of nights I’ll never have again, a person I’ll never be in a relationship with.

And I have to live and breathe it in order for it to be convincing.

And to be honest, given half a chance, I’d dump it and do the whole thing as an American import into the secret service.

But as the scripts are already written, and timelines are being moved up to ensure a release for late next year to coincide with nominations for Oscars, I know I won’t get away with it.

Every day my phone calls are ignored, I die a bit. Every day I speak in that voice, I die even more. I’m not sure there will be anything left worth having at this rate. Don’t even know why I bother calling. He won’t recognise me. Blindfold or not.

Day after day, week after week, my calls go unanswered. I’m politely warned to stay away from the twins' second birthday party. Kasey sends me pictures. It’s as if I’m watching a film of ‘here’s what you could have had.’ I’m a masochist. I must be, as I feast on them again and again.

Him holding the twins, a huge smile on all their faces.

Them both pulling at his stubble. Him screwing his face up as they do.

Him with Cole—Kasey’s son—on his shoulders.

The twins again in his arms. Lots of family photos.

In the background, talking with Evie, Kell, Xander.

All the people I want to speak to, but who all seem too busy for me.

Short staccato conversations. They want me off the phone. They don’t want to hear me beg.

I think Evie kills me the most. I can hear how upset she is for me. But her only comfort is ‘he’ll speak when he’s ready.’ And I hang onto that potential with the strength of a man dangling from a cliff by his fingernails.

But the killer photograph? Jackson with baby Rio.

Him cradling her in his big arms. Looking down at the baby with love.

A love I have actually seen in those eyes.

And I admit it, I fuckin’ cried. Cried like a baby.

Sank to my knees with want. And not just his body, but him.

I got a glimpse of what he was, but feel— know —there is so much more behind it. I had it. And I blew it.

“Schedules are in, Carter.” Freddie comes into the room and pointedly looks at me on my phone again. Staring at the same photographs.

“Not more prep. I’ve done enough,” I moan as I look at it.

“Well, you’re expected on set in Italy a week or so before Christmas.

You hate Christmas anyway, so it’ll be good for you.

” He’s all business, but he knows me well.

We met the first week I was in Hollywood.

He spotted me in a bar and came over to talk.

A fledgling agent with only one other client.

But we hit it off and have been friends ever since.

“I’ll set it up with Ash. Sort out all the logistics. Have you given him a schedule?” I ask him.

“Yes. Has that neanderthal tried to dump us? I thought I saw a termination contract from him. How dare he dump us. He was in the wrong. Henry Blake could have sued his ass.” Freddie is indignant. He knows Jackson’s tried to terminate our contract, but that I won’t sign the termination terms.

He’s offered to buy it out—at no expense to me—and find a new firm to take over. One he’s happy with. Ash has filled me in with what’s been discussed. The lawyers are doing the rest. But I refuse to sign. He is not getting rid of me.

I don’t care if it screams pathetic, it is.

It’s the last link. If I let him off, he’d never have a reason to see me again.

And I know the Greystones and Barclay-Russells will all fall into line behind him, whatever they think.

No shouting, no histrionics, just quietly dismissed, respectfully sidelined, gradually disappearing, until I fade to nothing.

Well they can fuck off. I am not being gotten rid of. I’m not going quietly. He is going to have to ‘deal with me.’ Jackson is going to hear me out. He needs to understand my motives. I am going to make sure of it.

We’re heading out initially to Italy. Into the mountains for snow scenes.

We need a glacier, so we’re heading to the high mountains, a ski town near the Matterhorn.

Ash is happy because his family can come out for Christmas, and so can his in-laws from the UK.

I don’t really care. But I know I need to speak to Jackson before I head out.

I’ve heard through the grapevine, a.k.a. Kasey, that Jonno Greystone has had a son. I know Jackson will go and see them. I know it. I need to get to him before he leaves for Ireland.

I call and call and call some more. After days of being ignored, I’ve had enough, and I turn up. It’s the height of desperation, but I know he’s going to Ireland tomorrow. I need to say my piece. I’m dreading it, but I can’t go on like this.

“Carter Maywood for Jackson Greystone,” I say confidently as I walk into the top floor executive office space. On any other day, in any other room, that name gets me entry even without an appointment. Not here.

Only three rooms up here. Jackson's office, a boardroom, and a smaller executive office for the family to use if they want to. Or if Jackson needs to move someone out of his office. I’ve heard the family talk about the containment office before.

I laughed at the time. Now I’m hoping the receptionist doesn’t show me into that one.

I’ll know for sure then I’m a thing to be contained, and dismissed.

My heart is beating wildly in my chest as I wait to see if he ignores me.

I don’t know what I’ll do if he does. Create a scene, or skulk away.

I’m praying he calls me in. My lips are dry, and I’m licking them trying to get some moisture into my mouth.

I don’t think I have ever been this nervous in my entire life.

I hear the door open but no footsteps on the wooden floor. I don’t look up. No one says anything. I raise my eyes and see his feet, stance wide, holding the door.

“You don’t have an appointment, Carter.” His voice is low, husky. But devoid of emotion.

I raise my eyes higher. His suit is dark grey, fitted.

Fuck, it’s fitted to that magnificent body.

Thighs filling out the trousers. Shirt light blue, and a dark grey tie.

Blowing out a breath to calm my nerves, I stand, and take in the spectacular sight in front of me.

The eyes pinpoint laser focused on mine. No emotion in them. Cold and hard.

“I know. But I’m leaving tomorrow, and I heard you are, too. I’d like to talk to you if I can. Clear the air, if possible.” I hold my breath waiting for the verdict. Waiting for him to be judge, jury, but hopefully not executioner.

He opens the door wider, walks farther inside the room, but doesn’t say a word.

Holy fuckin’ God. I can’t remember a damned thing of the speech I rehearsed. How can the most important lines of my life desert me now? How am I going to explain this?

Walking into the room, I see an efficient office.

Stark and beautiful. Pictures of his family line the sleek sideboards.

A wire sculpture of a horse, created by his brother-in-law, stands proudly as a centerpiece.

I know if I asked about every piece of personal art, or nonoffice function in this room, it would have some connection to his family.

It is everything to him. A gold album on the wall signed by Velvet Smoke—a gift from his brothers-in-law and their band.

Pictures of his oldest nephews from famous places around the world.

A platinum album, this one for James and Bucky’s band, B4d Intel.

Everything that makes the Greystones a family is encompassed in this room.

He gestures politely to the chair opposite his desk as he sits in his large chair. I don’t sit. I stand. This is not an interview. I’m not going to be treated like a subordinate.

I spot the comfortable couch area and point towards it. “May I?”

He shrugs, stands, and gestures to sit there. “Can I get you a drink?”

I nod. “Yes. Whiskey please, sugar.”

He rolls his eyes. Fuck, I’m treading fine lines here.

But he moves towards the drinks decanters and pours us both four fingers each. Neat, no water, no ice.

As he hands me the glass, our fingers brush, and I nearly drop the sturdy tumbler. The shock of electricity that passes from him to me jumpstarts my heart, my breathing, and my brain.

I’m not pretending to be someone I’m not. He can have me both barrels and do with that what he wants. And I’m going first.

“I wanted to see you to try and explain a bit about what happened. I feel when you walked out of my home, we were suffering from a gross misunderstanding. Mixed signals, if you will.” I keep my voice soft, but confident.

I can’t afford to get aggressive, not with the likes of him. He loves confrontation.